Part 4 (2/2)
On August 24, 1847, the story is sent from Leeds to London; and before the year is out, all England is ringing with the praises of the novel and its author.
Need I defend the sisters from the charge sometimes brought against them that they were unfaithful to their friends in not taking them into their confidence? Surely not. They had pledged themselves to each other that the secret should be sternly guarded as something sacred, kept even from those of their own household. They were not working for fame; for again and again they give proof that personal fame is the last thing to which they aspire. But they had found their true vocation; the call to work was irresistible; they had obeyed it, and all that they sought now was to leave their work to speak for itself, dissevered absolutely from the humble personality of the authors.
In a letter from Anne Bronte, written in January, 1848, at which time the literary quidnuncs both of England and America were eagerly discussing contradictory theories as to the authors.h.i.+p of ”Jane Eyre,”
and of the two other stories which had appeared from the pens of Ellis and Acton Bell, I find the following pa.s.sage: ”I have no news to tell you, for we have been nowhere, seen no one, and done nothing (to _speak_ of) since you were here, and yet we contrive to be busy from morning till night.” The gentle and scrupulously conscientious girl, whilst hiding the secret from her friend, cannot violate the truth even by a hairbreadth. The italics are her own. Nothing _that can be spoken of_ has been done. The friend had her own suspicions.
Staying in a southern house for the winter, the new novel about which everybody was talking was produced, fresh from town. One of the guests was deputed to read it aloud, and before she had proceeded far Charlotte Bronte's schoolfellow had pierced the secret of the authors.h.i.+p. Three months before, Charlotte had been spending a few days at Miss N----'s house, and had openly corrected the proof-sheets of the story in the presence of her hostess; but she had given the latter no encouragement to speak to her on the subject, and nothing had been said. Now, however, in the surprise of the moment, Miss N---- told the company that this must have been written by Miss Bronte; and astute friends at once advised her not to mention the fact that she knew the author of ”Jane Eyre” to any one, as her acquaintance with such a person would be regarded as a reflection on her own character!
When Charlotte was challenged by her friend, she uttered stormy denials in general terms, which carried a complete confirmation of the truth; and when, in the spring of 1848, Miss N---- visited Haworth, full confession was made, and the poems brought forth and shown to her, in addition to the stories.
Those who read Charlotte Bronte's letters will see that even before this avowal of her flight in authors.h.i.+p there is a distinct change in their tone. Not that she is less affectionate towards her early friend, or that she shows the smallest abatement of her interest in the fortunes of her old companions. On the contrary, it would almost seem as though the great event, which had altered the current of her life, had only served to bind her more closely than before to those whom she had known and loved in her obscurity. But there is a perceptible growth of power and independence in her mode of handling the topics, often trivial enough in themselves, which arise in any prolonged correspondence, which shows how much her mind had grown, how greatly her views had been enlarged, by the intellectual labours through which she had pa.s.sed. The following was the last letter written by her to her schoolfellow whilst the authors.h.i.+p of ”Jane Eyre” was still a secret, and it will, I think, bear out what I have said:
April 25th, 1848.
I was not at all surprised at the contents of your note. Indeed, what part of it was new to us? V---- has his good and bad side, like most others. There is his own original nature, and there are the alterations the world has made in him. Meantime, why do B---- and G---- trouble themselves with matching him? Let him, in G.o.d's name, court half the country-side and marry the other half, if such procedure seem good in his eyes, and let him do it all in quietness. He has his own botherations, no doubt; it does not seem to be such very easy work getting married, even for a man, since it is necessary to make up to so many ladies. More tranquil are those who have settled their bargain with celibacy. I like Q----'s letters more and more. Her goodness is indeed better than mere talent. I fancy she will never be married, but the amiability of her character will give her comfort. To be sure, one has only her letters to judge from, and letters often deceive; but hers seem so artless and unaffected. Still, were I in your place I should feel uneasy in the midst of this correspondence. Does a doubt of mutual satisfaction in case you should one day meet never torment you?...
Anne says it pleases her to think that you have kept her little drawing. She would rather have done it for you than for a stranger.
Very quietly and sedately did ”Currer Bell” take her sudden change of fortune. She corresponded freely with her publishers, and with the critics who had written to her concerning her book; she told her father the secret of her authors.h.i.+p, and exhibited to him the draft which was the substantial recompense of her labours; but in her letters to her friend no difference of tone is to be detected. Success was very sweet to her, as we know; but she bore her honours meekly, betraying nothing of the gratified ambition which must have filled her soul. She had not even revealed her ident.i.ty to the publisher till, by an accident, she became aware of the rumour that the writer had satirised Mr. Thackeray under the character of Rochester, and had even obtruded on the sorrows of his private life. Shocked at this supposition, she went to London by the night train, accompanied by Anne, and having breakfasted at the station, walked to the establishment in Cornhill, where she had much difficulty in penetrating to the head of the house, having stated that he would not know her by her name. At last he came into the shop, saying, with some annoyance: ”Young woman, what can you want with me?”
”Sir, we have come up from Yorks.h.i.+re. I wish to speak to you privately.
I wrote 'Jane Eyre.'” ”_You_ wrote 'Jane Eyre!'” cried the delighted publisher; and taking them into his office, insisted on their coming to the house of his mother, who would take every care of them. Charlotte related afterwards the strange contrast between the desolate waiting at the station in the early morning, and their loneliness in the crowd of the great city, and finding themselves in the evening seated among the brilliant company at the Opera House, listening to the performance of Jenny Lind.
But her thoughts were soon turned from her literary triumphs. Branwell, who had been so long the dark shadow in their ”humble home,” was taken from them without any lengthened preliminary warning. Sharing to the full the eccentricity of the family, he resolved to die as n.o.body else had ever died before; and when the last agony came on he rose to his feet, as though proudly defying death itself to do its worst, and expired standing. In the following letter, hitherto unpublished, to one of her friends--not to her old schoolfellow--Charlotte thus speaks of the last act in the tragedy of her brother's life:
Haworth, October 14th, 1848.
The event to which you allude came upon us indeed with startling suddenness, and was a severe shock to us all. My poor brother has long had a shaken const.i.tution, and during the summer his appet.i.te had been diminished and he had seemed weaker; but neither we, nor himself, nor any medical man who was consulted on his case, thought it one of immediate danger: he was out of doors two days before his death, and was only confined to bed one single day. I thank you for your kind sympathy. Many, under the circ.u.mstances, would think our loss rather a relief than otherwise; in truth, we must acknowledge, in all humility and grat.i.tude, that G.o.d has greatly tempered judgment with mercy; but yet, as you doubtless know from experience, the last earthly separation cannot take place between near relations without the keenest pangs on the part of the survivors. Every wrong and sin is forgotten then; pity and grief share the heart and the memory between them. Yet we are not without comfort in our affliction. A most propitious change marked the few last days of poor Branwell's life; his demeanour, his language, his sentiments, were all singularly altered and softened, and this change could not be owing to the fear of death, for within half an hour of his decease he seemed unconscious of danger. In G.o.d's hands we leave him! He sees not as man sees.
Papa, I am thankful to say, has borne the event pretty well. His distress was great at first. To lose an only son is no ordinary trial. But his physical strength has not hitherto failed him, and he has now in a great measure recovered his mental composure; my dear sisters are pretty well also. Unfortunately illness attacked me at the crisis, when strength was most needed; I bore up for a day or two, hoping to be better, but got worse; fever, sickness, total loss of appet.i.te and internal pain were the symptoms. The doctor p.r.o.nounced it to be bilious fever--but I think it must have been in a mitigated form; it yielded to medicine and care in a few days; I was only confined to my bed a week, and am, I trust, nearly well now. I felt it a grievous thing to be incapacitated from action and effort at a time when action and effort were most called for. The past month seems an overclouded period in my life.
Alas! the brave woman who felt it to be ”a grievous thing” that she could not bear her full share of the family burden, little knew how terribly that burden was to be increased, how much heavier and blacker were the clouds which awaited her than any through which she had yet pa.s.sed. The storm which even then was gathering upon her path was one which no suns.h.i.+ne of fame or prosperity could dissipate. The one to whom Charlotte's heart had always clung most fondly, the sister who had been nearest to her in age and nearest to her in affection, Emily, the brilliant but ill-fated child of genius, began to fade. ”She had never,” says Charlotte, speaking in the solitude of her fame, ”lingered over any task in her life, and she did not linger now.” Yet the quick decline of Emily Bronte is one of the saddest of all the sad features of the story. I have spoken of her reserve. So intense was it that when dying she refused to admit even to her own sisters that she was ill. They saw her fading before their eyes; they knew that the grave was yawning at her feet; and yet they dared not offer her any attention such as an invalid needed, and such as they were longing to bestow upon her. It was the cruellest torture of Charlotte's life.
During the brief period of Emily's illness, her sister writes as follows to her friend:
I mentioned your coming to Emily as a mere suggestion, with the faint hope that the prospect might cheer her, as she really esteems you perhaps more than any other person out of this house.
I found, however, it would not do; any, the slightest excitement or putting out of the way, is not to be thought of, and indeed I do not think the journey in this unsettled weather, with the walk from Keighley and back, at all advisable for yourself. Yet I should have liked to see you, and so would Anne. Emily continues much the same: yesterday I thought her a little better, but to-day she is not so well. I hope still, for I _must_ hope; she is as dear to me as life. If I let the faintness of despair reach my heart I shall become worthless. The attack was, I believe, in the first place, inflammation of the lungs; it ought to have been met promptly in time; but she would take no care, use no means, she is too intractable. I _our_ wish I knew her state and feelings more clearly. The fever is not so high as it was, but the pain in the side, the cough, the emaciation are there still.
The days went by in the parsonage, slowly, solemnly, each bringing some fresh burden of sorrow to the broken hearts of Charlotte and Anne. Emily's resolute spirit was unbending to the last. Day after day she refused to own that she was ill, refused to take rest or medicine or stimulants; compelled her trembling hands to labour as of old. And so came the bitter morning in December, the story of which has been told by Mrs. Gaskell with simple pathos, when she ”arose and dressed herself as usual, making many a pause, but doing everything for herself,” even going on with her sewing as at any time during the years past; until suddenly she laid the unfinished work aside, whispered faintly to her sister: ”If you send for a doctor I will see him now,” and in two hours pa.s.sed quietly away.
The broken father, supported on either side by his surviving daughters, followed Emily to her grave in the old church. There was one other mourner--the fierce old dog whom she had loved better almost than any human being.
Yes--says Charlotte, writing to her friend--there is no Emily in time or on earth now. Yesterday we put her poor wasted mortal frame quietly under the church pavement. We are very calm at present. Why should we be otherwise? The anguish of seeing her suffer is over. We feel she is at peace. No need now to tremble for the hard frost and the keen wind. Emily does not feel them.
She died in a time of promise. We saw her taken from life in its prime. But it is G.o.d's will, and the place where she is gone is better than that she has left.
It was in the very month of December, 1848, when Charlotte pa.s.sed through this fierce ordeal, and wrote these tender words of love and resignation, that the _Quarterly Review_ denounced her as an improper woman, who ”for some sufficient reason” had forfeited the society of her s.e.x!
Terrible was the storm of death which in three short months swept off two of the little household at Haworth; but it had not even yet exhausted all its fury. Scarcely had Emily been laid in the grave than Anne, the youngest and gentlest of the three sisters, began to fade.
Very slowly did she droop. The winter pa.s.sed away, and the spring came with a glimmer of hope; but the following unpublished letter, written on the 16th of May, shows with what fears Charlotte set forth on that visit to Scarborough which her sister insisted upon undertaking as a last resource:
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